The Pensieve of Sherlock Holmes
by Phyona
Summary: "After all this time?" "Always," said Sherlock. A retelling of 'The Prince's Tale' featuring Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Salutations, my loves! The following fic started out as a fun little one-shot between 'The Temper Between' and 'The First Trip' (the final installment in my 'The First and Last Trilogy'), and ended up growing into a full-blown project with intricate outlines and about 10,000 words of introductory scenes before I knew it. My B. Combining my two favorite fanfic genres was just far too satisfying to resist. I hope you enjoy!**

_With each step a hard, clamping dread sank deeper in his chest. He extended a hand to steady himself on the wall, sliding fingertips across smooth sheetrock as he climbed higher and higher. The smell. Oh God, the smell. Like burnt hair and wilted lemon rinds and low tide. He fought not to gag on it. It felt like his joints were swelling, like insects were burrowing into his lungs, as the inevitable certainty of what lay before him crept in the back of his mind. He ignored it, held onto hope as long as he could, but each ascending stair stripped it from him. Everything was so bloody __**silent**__. And the silence rankled, screeched nothing into his ears until they ached to burst. Flat. Carpet. No more stairs. A door: ajar. He gathered himself with a shuddering breath, wrestling back fear. Barbed, gutting fear. Fingers spread wide, taut, he gave the door a quick push, startling when it crashed against the wall. _

_And then he saw him, and a part of Sherlock Holmes, the good part, the true part, the only part that mattered, died. _

* * *

Part One

"John, I'm warning you…" threatened the stocky, blonde girl. Aggressive, impulsive, envious, manipulative, masculine, potential for addiction, twelve years of age. The tapestry of her personality read like a children's book to Sherlock. Boring. Tedious. He despised the sight of her, the high-pitched timbre of her voice. She was a simpleton, and worse, a muggle.

"Oh, come on, Harry, what are you so afraid of?" replied the stocky, blonde boy. Strong moral principle, patient, reckless, affinity for tea, nerves of steel, bored, ten years of age. Sherlock had come to the grove to observe him six times since they'd moved into town a few weeks prior. The boy called 'John' was interesting in a place where everything was oppressively drab. Low-crime rate, minimal traffic, repetitious plaster houses. Sherlock could hardly imagine a more personal form of torture.

Despite his curiosity with the boy, Sherlock had kept himself carefully hidden, watching from behind a shrub and cataloging, absorbing, as the siblings played in the field. He'd wanted to reveal himself multiple times, but John was always with _her_. He wanted her to go away.

"It's wrong, John. It's not normal. And anyway, mum said you couldn't."

"It's just a leaf, Harry." The boy called 'John' was smirking. He had an oak leaf (_Quercus robur: _natural astringent_)_ hovering in mid air a few centimeters above his palm.

"And it shouldn't be doing that. I hate it, John. I hate when you do this."

"But why? I'm not hurting anybody."

"What if someone sees? What will people think?"

"I don't care."

"Well, _I_ do."

John curled his fingers together, sending the leaf spinning and arching in air.

"Stop it!"

John ignored her, extending his index finger. The leaf split in half.  
"I said _stop it_!" the girl called Harry snarled, irritation morphing into fury. Slapping John's hand away, she sent the leaf halves fluttering to the ground. She advanced on him, shoving, while the boy kept his jaw set, expression hard, and didn't react.

"Harry. Stop," he said, a neutral command in his tone. Harry did not stop. She was spitting a babble of words, more hitting than pushing now.

Something unexpected snapped in Sherlock at the sight. John would have bruises, crescents and ovals of purpled skin. Bruises were typically fascinating, but for some reason the idea of them on John, _his_ John, was unacceptable. They didn't belong anywhere near him, and neither did his deplorable sister.

He launched out from his hiding place behind a shrub (Alder Buckthorn - _Frangula alnus_: bark utilized in poisons) and strode towards the siblings. He kept his expression impassive and his shoulders back, with all the air of his pureblood heritage set down his spine.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned, stopping in front of Harry and locking eyes with her. He could see John staring at him, bewildered, in his periphery.

"Who the hell are you? Were you _spying_ on us? Stay out of this!" Harry snapped, clearly gathering back her ire after the momentary confusion from Sherlock's sudden appearance.

"Who I am is not relevant. You've no need to know me. I know you, though. You're weak, your intelligence on the lower end of average. Angry, too. Your parents worry, don't they? Don't understand why you're so irascible. You haven't told anyone, but I know. I see it written all over you. The lesbian, the muggle, the _inferior_. Bit of trouble in your school too, I bet. Bullying. No friends. Cuticles gnawed until they bled. All the portents of an addict, they're coating your every pore like a stain. One you'll never wash out, no matter how hard you strike your brother."

"H-how did you— I—you—what _are_ you?" Sherlock watched her tongue and lips fumble over the words, a bead of spittle at the corner of her mouth. Pathetic.

"I'm like him."

He said the words in as deep a tone as he could muster, the advantage of having his voice drop before the majority of his peers, and indicated John with a finger. He could see John's mouth hanging open in the edge of his vision. "You don't want to get people like us angry. We can't control the things we do. Not yet, anyway. Should we slip, should we lose control, there would be no consequences. I can promise you that."

"W-what? John, what is he—"

Cutting her off, Sherlock lifted his hand, and suddenly hundreds of leaves from the small grove behind him ripped up into the air. They spun violently, a tornado of green and brown, and Harry screamed, covering her mouth with her hands. The slide and woosh was deafening.

Then, with one flick of his wrist, Sherlock released them, and they swirled, innocently, to the ground.

"You—you freak!" Harry screeched once the last leaf had settled.

"Harry, calm down," John said, taking a step towards her and reaching for her arm. She flinched away, turning a scorching glare on her brother.

"No! Is that what you are, John? Like—like _him_?"

"Harry—"

"Don't touch me!" she spat, reeling away from his outstretched hand and sprinting across the field towards a crop of identical houses.

John let out a long, withered sigh, his shoulders sagging.

And then he turned to Sherlock, and grey eyes met dark blue for the first time.

"Who are you? Why did you do that?" John asked harshly, striding to him. Sherlock fell back a step before he could stop himself.

Oh. John did not like what he'd done. John was angry. Wrong. That was wrong.

"I—"

"You hurt her feelings. You _scared_ her."

"It's not my fault she—"

"Yes, it is your fault. That's my _sister_."

"I was only trying to—"

"Well, you went too far."

"I'm…sorry." Sherlock twitched when the word left his mouth. He never apologized, to anyone, yet John had plucked the word from him with ease.

"I know. Just…you didn't have to do that," John said, a bit more calmly, and gazed up at him. He was close, staring right into Sherlock's face. Sherlock would barely need to lift his hand to touch him. "But, it was really amazing." A slight grin tugged at the corner of the blonde boy's lips. Sherlock started, a warm flush blooming in his cheeks before he could suppress it. Most unexpected.

"You think so?"

"Of course I do. I mean, aside from scaring the pants off my sister, who I guess did have it coming, that—that thing you did…extraordinary."

"It was basic wandless magic. Hardly challenging. Well, hardly challenging for me."

"Magic?"

"Yes. You haven't been told yet because you're muggle-born, but you're a wizard. That's how you make things move without touching them. I've been observing you for a while."

"No, not the leaf thing. I mean, that was amazing too, but the thing you did to Harry. It was like you knew everything about her. How?"

"I didn't know, I saw."

"What does that mean?"

"I observe. I use my eyes. I collect detail and draw conclusions."

"Well, it's incredible," John said, flashing a brilliant smile. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. He swallowed.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

John's eyes widened a fraction, surprised, it seemed, by Sherlock's use of a swear word. But then his lips curled into an even wider smile, and Sherlock found himself smirking back.

"You talk like a grown-up."

"Grown-ups are idiots."

"It's true, isn't it," John mused, the gears in his head turning so obviously, Sherlock swore he could hear them clinking and grinding together. "I didn't know there were other people like me," John said after a moment, eyes flickering to the ground. "Other…_wizards_."

"There are many. I can teach you things, if you want. We'll be going to school together next year. A school for people like us."

"There's a whole school for it? For magic?" Sherlock nodded. "That sounds great! And you'll be there, too?"

"That's what I said."

"I hope my parents let me go."

"They will. They have to." A flurry of ideas of what persuasive and horrible things Sherlock could do to John's parents if they refused ran through his head. It would be a welcome challenge, and one he would inevitably win.

"Yeah…I can't wait to get out of here," John sighed, chuckling a little and drawing back Sherlock's focus.

"Likewise."

John's expression, all teeth and crinkled eyes, was not one Sherlock was accustomed to seeing. He found himself drawn, sinking into dark blue irises. Were they blue? At an angle they could be brown. Or hazel.

"I guess I should go check on Harry," John said, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, flinching at how frantic the word sounded on his lips. Must remain impartial, blank.

"She's my sister."

"So? I have a brother. He's infuriating," said Sherlock, grimacing uncontrollably at the recollection of flabby skin and garish robes.

"She'll be crying to my parents by now, though. I'm probably in trouble."

"Oh," Sherlock said. "I got you in trouble."

"Probably, but I liked it."

"I see."

Sherlock found himself smiling again. Strange. He imagined he must have looked very foolish, but it was difficult to care with John grinning up at him so shamelessly. He wondered if his face would be sore later. The muscles were underused, the lactic acid building already.

"Um…do you want to get me in trouble again tomorrow?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, feeling his ears go strangely hot. John shuffled back and forth slightly, eyes falling to the ground.

"Do you want to meet me tomorrow, I mean. How does 10:00 sound? I want to…get out of my house for a while." John looked back to Sherlock's face. Eyebrows curved, bottom lip caught between teeth, hopeful. He actually wanted to see Sherlock again. Sherlock blinked a few times before the words came to him.

"Yes. Fine."

"Meet at the pond? The one over there," John asked, indicating beyond the grove. "Do you know it?"

"Of course I know it."

"Alright, alright. See you then!" John called as he turned and began trotting off in Harry's path.

He paused, not twenty yards away, and looked back.

"Hey, what's your name?" he called.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm John Watson. See you tomorrow!" and he smiled, again, before running away through the low grass. Sherlock watched him go until he was nothing but a spot, disappearing behind the brick edge of a house.

That night, Sherlock barely slept in anticipation of the coming day. Of course, he barely slept usually, but this time was different. Thoughts of John filled his head, consumed him in the dark, hollow confines of his room. Morning light had never taken so long to break.

* * *

"Hogwarts, huh? That's a funny name for a school," John scoffed, snapping his wrist and sending a stone skipping across the pond.

"At least it isn't boring," Sherlock said, eyeing the ripples from John's pebble pointedly. "You know, you don't have to do it like that. There's another way."

"What do you mean?" Canting his head to side, John leaned back on his hands. Sherlock stood, brushing stray grass off his trousers and extending a hand to John. John stared at it for a moment before clasping it in his own, allowing Sherlock to pull him to his feet.

"Alright, pick a good skimming stone."

John's eyes flickered to his, giving him a quick look of inquiry, before they focused on the thin strip of rocky shore at their feet.

"That one," John said, bending down. Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Wool, rough, basic cable knit pattern, likely made by relative or neighbor.

"Not like that." John's brow furrowed in puzzlement, but he obeyed nonetheless, and stood straight. "Here," Sherlock murmured, clearing his throat and stepping closer. With long, slender fingers, far too big for his body, Sherlock took hold of John's wrist, right where the sleeve of his jumper gave way to skin. He turned John's hand over so his palm faced the ground.

"You're so pale," John observed, staring at where porcelain white skin met tan. Sherlock swallowed.

"Pay attention," he ordered, adjusting his grip. "Look at the stone. Really look at it." John did. "Let it take up all your focus, all the space in your head. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yes, hang on," John snapped, though not too severely. Sherlock watched as he blinked, eyes narrowing, pupils contracting.

"Now, imagine the stone in your hand. Want it. Wish for it."

"Mmkay."

Sherlock took a step closer so that his front was almost flush up against John's back. When he looked down at the tufts of blonde hair, so close to his nose, he stole a deep breath. Grass, wool, fabric softener, _John_. He memorized the fragrance, tucking it away in a special room of his mind palace.

"_Sherlock_!" John hissed excitedly, drawing his attention away from soft hair and scent, and to a pebble which was quivering in the mud. A disgruntled woodworm beetle (_Anobium punctatum_: wings can be crushed and used in stamina potions) crawled out from under it and scuttled away. Sherlock glanced at John, whose features were sharp with concentration.

"_Come on_," he whispered into the shell of John's ear.

With a pop the stone hopped up off the ground, right into John's palm where he easily caught it.

John turned, mouth splitting into a ridiculous leer, and looked up at Sherlock. They were close, faces just centimeters away. Sherlock felt something tingling in his chest, unidentifiable, unfamiliar, frustrating.

"Don't get too excited, you still have to skim it."

"Ah, right." John's face fell. Sherlock gnawed at the side of his mouth at the sight of it. He decided that he greatly preferred it when John smiled.

Delicately, Sherlock turned John's wrist around and tapped on his fist until the fingers uncurled. John stared at the grimy pebble resting on his palm, as though baffled by how it got there.

"Now, as before, you have to will the pebble into moving. Imagine it, as clearly as you can, flying off your hand and skipping across the water. You really have to want it and see it in your head."

John nodded and frowned at the pebble, temple twitching as he clenched his jaw. In a few moments the pebble started to shudder in his palm.

"Good. Now…_skim it_!" Sherlock hissed in his ear.

The stone wrenched off his hand like a bullet, shooting through the air over the pond, well above the surface of the water, and pegging an unsuspecting goose on the opposite shore. A bizarre, scandalized honk erupted from the plump bird, who immediately took off in a flurry of feathers. It tumbled drunkenly as it flew, squealing and barking it's offense well into the distance.

"I…I just hit a goose," John choked after a long moment.

"A bean goose, specifically. I believe they're rare for these parts."

"They certainly are now."

In unison, John and Sherlock turned towards each other, eyes locking, and burst into a fit of giggles. They bent over, clutching at each other through sobs of laughter, until they crumpled onto the grass.

"That was some pretty good aim, huh?" John managed to say between gasps.

"Just wait until you get a wand."

"A _wand_? We actually get wands?"

"Of course."

"How do you know all these things?"

"I'm a genius."

"You're a prat." At Sherlock's affronted frown he started snickering all over again, and Sherlock found himself joining in before he could help it. His own laughter sounded bizarre to his ears, the way his stomach muscles clenched and his fingers got tingly evoking an all-together alien sensation.

Eventually, the last of their tittering died down, leaving them sated and smiling, tangled together a bit, on the grass. A cool breeze swirled around them, making the tendrils of the weeping willow trees (_Salix chrysochoma: _gum used in the treatment of sores_) _around the pond sway.

"Harry's not talking to me, ya know," John said after a moment, his tone devoid of its previous cheerfulness. Sherlock tilted his head towards him, but John was staring out across the pond.

"She just doesn't understand. She can't. She's a muggle."

"There's that word again. You keep using it. What is a _muggle_, anyways?"

"Someone without magic."

"So…you said I was muggle-born, right? That means I have non-magic parents."

"Obviously."

John seemed oblivious to his snarky tone. Or perhaps impervious.

"Does that mean I'm less magical?"

Dark blue eyes caught his. Sincere, large, concerned. Something tugged in Sherlock's chest, as though John had tied a string to his solar plexus and could pull on it whenever he wanted. The idea was daunting.

"No. It does not."

The words fell from Sherlock's mouth, unbidden, but honest, though he'd never believed them before. Pureblood was just that: pure. The principle was ingrained in him and John's status was unavoidable. John was a _Mudblood_, and how the word stung behind Sherlock's eyes. He could never use that word for his John. John was funny and interesting and thought Sherlock was 'amazing' and 'incredible.' Surely such good taste canceled out his lack of pure blood.

"Are you muggle-born too?"

Sherlock scowled.

"Of course not."

"Oh. Your parents are both wizards, then?"

"They are both pureblooded."

"So…that means they can both do magic?"

"My father can, but my mother cannot."

"Why can't she?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"I mean, you don't have to tell me, of course, I-"

"I know I don't," Sherlock replied flatly, cutting John off. "My mother is a squib. That means she comes from a magical family but, for whatever reason, she was born unable to practice magic."

"Ah," John said quietly. Sherlock could tell he didn't entirely understand what Sherlock was describing but was choosing not to press the matter.

"She's still a pureblood, though, despite what my father seems to think. Of course, he'd hardly have agreed to marry a mud—muggle-born."

"Oh. It's…bad, then? To be muggle-born?"

"Some people believe so."

"Do you?"

Sherlock swallowed, breaking their eye contact and looking at his hands.

"No."

"Good. That's good then." Without seeing his face Sherlock could hear the way John's smile curved around the words. "I'm glad you're coming to Hog—uh—Hog—"

"Hogwarts."

"Yeah, Hogwarts, with me."

Sherlock became hyper-aware of where John's ankle was linked around his, of how their arms were pressed together.

"We'll be sorted into different houses, though," Sherlock stated. It was obvious, unavoidable.

"What house did you want to be in again?"

"Slytherin."

"Sounds nasty."

"It can be. It's for people who aspire to be great, who will do anything to achieve greatness."

"And you want to be great?"

"Of course. Don't you?"

"I dunno. I guess I just…want to do the right thing."

"Dull."

A short cackle burst from John's lips. It startled Sherlock, who was getting increasingly worried that he and John wouldn't be seeing much of each other at school.

"Are there any other houses you'd want to be in?" John asked.

"I suppose Ravenclaw would be bearable."

"And what kind of people are in that house?"

"Clever people. People of wit and learning."

"That sounds like you to me."

"Does it?"

"Mhmm. What house do you think I'll be in?"

"Gryffindor," Sherlock replied without hesitation. As much as he wished it weren't true, he couldn't ignore the facts. John was practically a poster boy for Gryffindor house, with his blatant sense of morality and nerve. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. "At least it's better than Hufflepuff."

"Why, who gets into Hufflepuff?"

"The hard-working and the loyal."

"What's so wrong with that?"

"Aside from being unforgivably boring, loyalty breeds sentiment. 'Hard-working' is just another term for 'stupid.'"

"You're ridiculous."

"At least I'm not a Hufflepuff."

"No, you definitely aren't. But hey, maybe you'll get sorted into Gryffindor like me," John said, smiling hopefully.

"Impossible."

"You never know."

"I always know."

John sighed and lay back, crossing his arms behind his head for a pillow.

"See, that's what sounds boring."

"What do you mean?"

"Knowing what's going to happen all the time. It sounds really boring to me."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes narrowed. John didn't seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the tops of the willow trees. After a moment, Sherlock lay down as well and mimicked John's position. Their ankles were still touching. Boney, two layers of fabric, warm.

"I can't wait to grow up," John said wistfully.

"Me either. I hate being under my brother's fat thumb all the time. He'll be a seventh year when we go to Hogwarts. And Head Boy. He'll be insufferable." Sherlock wrenched a few blades of grass from the dirt and tossed them. They glided to the ground far less dramatically than he intended.

"He sounds like a git."

"Oh, he is."

"What house is he in?"

"Slytherin. If anyone believes the ends justify the means, it's Mycroft."

"I wonder what—um. Harry… Harry can't come to school with me, can she…"

"Of course not. She's a muggle."

"I won't really see her, then," John stated, not really a question.

"No." The word might have sounded harsh, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Harry was a distraction for John. He should spend his time with Sherlock instead.

A lingering quiet fell between them, broken only by the slow swells of wind and the gentle lapping of pond water. Sherlock couldn't seem to pull his gaze away from John, memorizing every detail of his profile. The way his short hair curled behind his ear, the way his nose turned up a little on the tip, the way his tongue darted across his bottom lip when he was thinking.

"Even if we're not in the same house we can still be friends, right?" John asked, breaking the silence.

"Friends?" Sherlock echoed, trying the word out on his tongue. It felt foreign, untouched.

"Yeah."

"I don't see why not."

"Good. Then it's a deal?" He thrust his hand out in front of Sherlock's face, a gesture of agreement. Tentatively, Sherlock curled his fingers around John's hand, pressing their palms together. His skin was cool.

"Deal."

**Author's Note: Next chapter to come soon. It's all written, but editing on this one is a real Peeves. Anyways, I love you readers/reviewers like John will inevitably love pumpkin juice (and penis)! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Hey, I just wrote this...and this is shady...but here's my fanfic...review it, maybe?**

"_This_ is your room?" John asked, mouth gaping, as he dropped his overnight bag to the floor.

Sherlock nodded.

"It's… well—"

"What." He arched a challenging eyebrow.

"It's a right mess, but it's also brilliant." John put his hands on his hips, eyes swiveling about the large, high-ceilinged space, an expression of appraisal on his face. "Woah, what's all this?" John inquired when his gaze fell on Sherlock's rather cluttered and very elaborate potion set. He made a beeline for it.

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock bit out, flinching as John's fingertips barely halted before making contact with a beaker. Sherlock had about a dozen potions in progress, all of which were at a rather delicate state. Any interference could set him back weeks, even months.

"I'm sorry," John said sheepishly, glancing back at Sherlock over his shoulder and shoving his hands in his jean pockets. "I've just never seen anything like this before." He watched John's eyes flicker eagerly back over the set.

"Of course you haven't. These are highly advanced potion-making materials. I'm the only one who knows how to use this exact system properly. It's very intricate."

"Still looks like a mess to me."

Sherlock bristled.

"It's not a mess. I know exactly where everything is."

Sherlock approached John and began describing his collection. From the shelves riddled with jars of various herbs and potion ingredients, to the vast library of books, to the range of antique magical implements. John didn't speak, but listened intently with his lips parted and eyes wide. Sherlock savored the moments when he had John's undivided, rapt attention. Perhaps genius required an audience.

"As I said, brilliant, but could still use some picking up."

"Oh," Sherlock said, ears pinking. He'd expected John to be impressed. Vulnerability, embarrassment. The feelings wheedled into his consciousness before he could resist them. Raking his fingers through his curls, he cast around haphazardly for something to tidy. "I suppose I could reorganize a bit." He grabbed a stack of parchment and stuck it to the mantle above his hearth with a dagger. There. Surely that was enough.

"Doesn't really matter, I guess," John shrugged, waving him off. He went to Sherlock's bed, the only thing in the room kept in pristine condition, and flopped down on it, bouncing a bit. He leaned back on his elbows. "So, what are we going to do tonight?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's a sleepover, right? We should do something fun." Sherlock's brow wrinkled together.

"Fun."

"Yeah. Say, where's your family? Are we the only ones here?"

"Yes. My parents are away, as usual. Mycroft is obviously at Hogwarts."

"As usual? You mean, you're usually stuck in this big house alone all the time?" John sat up on the bed, his azure eyes laced with concern and puzzlement. No matter how many times John turned his gaze on Sherlock it always managed to startle him. Perhaps because John's irises always insisted on changing colour. Sometimes he swore they were doing it just to flummox him.

"I assure you, it's far preferable to the alternative."

"But you're only ten."

"Eleven in January."

"Still a few months away. How do you-how do you _eat_ without parents?"

"You met the housekeeper. And I don't need to eat often anyways."

John glanced to the side, familiar look of concentration clear in the clench of his jaw.

"I should sleep over more often, then."

A ripple of tension shot up Sherlock's spine, bringing with it a variety of images of John and himself working on experiments, eating together, practicing their magic.

"If you like," he replied softly.

"I would. Besides, I'll take any excuse to avoid Harry and her bloody snoring. She sounds like that goose I hit last summer."

John shot him a lopsided grin, and Sherlock felt the corner of his lip twitch.

"So. Fun. What would like to do?" John persisted.

"I'm…I'm not sure."

"Well, what do you usually do?"

"Experiment. Read. Work on my magic."

"Oh, that's—right, okay. Do you, uh, ever watch telly?"

"What?"

"Television…?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock stated indignantly, sticking up his chin.

"Answers that question, then. What about games? Do you have any board games?"

"Do I look like an infant to you?"

John breathed out a long-suffering sigh.

"I'm out of ideas then," he forfeited, keeling back onto the bed with a thud. Sherlock watched him intently, eyes scanning over John's face, chest, the strip of skin exposed where his striped jumper had ridden up. If Sherlock didn't think of something, John would be bored. Because of him. He thought quickly.

"We can go raid my brother's room," Sherlock offered.

John perked up immediately, head lifting off the duvet so he could latch eyes with Sherlock.

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

John worried his lip, tongue darting out and in.

"It would be very wrong of us."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in analysis, scanning over John's face. Intrigued, poorly hidden smirk evident in the twitching of his bottom lip, breathing quickened slightly. Problem solved.

"I'll get my magnifying glass."

When Sherlock strode through his door, various inspection tools in hand, and made for Mycroft's room down the hall, John was following close behind him.

...

"I didn't think anyone could own so many magazines about cake," John mused as they returned to Sherlock's room some time later.

"Disturbing, isn't it. Though not quite as disturbing as what Mycroft will find under his bed when he returns," Sherlock smirked, setting about putting away his tools.

As he did so, John crossed to the bed, kicked off his converses (worn, scuffed, one year old), and crawled onto the duvet. Snuggling into a pillow, he curled onto his side, facing Sherlock. "Raiding your brother's room made me a bit knackered," he said through a yawn, voice muffled by cotton.

"We'll have a good selection of blackmail for when he hassles me in school next year," Sherlock assured, shutting the drawer to his wooden, stained potions table. He glanced at John. At the sight of him, cozy and comfortable on _Sherlock's_ bed, he suddenly felt the need to avert his eyes. He fumbled with a few phials on his desk, oddly unsure of what to do with his hands.

"Where am I to be sleeping?" John asked in a logy tone, his eyelids already drooping. "My dad had me up early practicing rugby. I wish I'd get my letter soon so he'd stop bugging me about it. It's not like Hogwarts has a rugby team."

"Perhaps you can play Quidditch."

"Hope so. Sounds fun from what you've told me."

"Sounds like a waste of time to me." Sherlock paused, looking down at his feet before speaking again. "You…um…and you can sleep in my bed. I'll be up for a while anyways." Sherlock tried to sound as impassive as possible, but it was difficult. He'd never had a friend before, let alone allowed one in his house or his bed. It was flustering. He supposed it would be more suitable for John to stay in one of the many guest rooms, but then he'd be way too far away. What if Sherlock needed help with an experiment? No, that wouldn't do at all.

"You don't sleep enough," John remarked through another yawn.

"Sleep is boring."

"Sleep is good for you. Why don't you lie down, see how you feel? I promise I don't snore. That's just Harry. Plus, this has to be biggest bloody bed I've ever seen."

Sherlock took a quick breath, feeling a bit caught off-guard. He had things to do, books to read, potions to test. Sleep hadn't even occurred to him. Yet, John did look remarkably comfortable curled up on his side, burrowing into Sherlock's feather down pillow. It was always so cold and drafty in his room, and Sherlock hardly had a high body mass index, so the added body heat would be…acceptable. He did a quick review of his physical state, contemplating how long it had been since he'd last slept. Over thirty hours. He would start to have trouble focusing if he didn't rest soon. That would be intolerable.

"I…I'll just get into my pyjamas then," he muttered, turning towards his monstrous wardrobe.

"Ah, good idea," John sighed, tumbling from the bed and padding to his bag.

Once his pyjamas were selected and folded in his arms, Sherlock turned around and found himself quite unexpectedly stunned. John was half-naked, changing unabashedly right in the middle of his room. Immediately averting his eyes, Sherlock felt heat blooming in his neck, spreading like a fever up to his cheeks and ears.

"I'll just…bathroom…to change," he stuttered gracelessly, scuttling into his ensuite bathroom and closing the door behind him as quickly as possible. Dropping his pyjamas to the tiled floor, he gripped the sides of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. He watched for a long moment as the blood flushing his cheeks receded, leaving a pink hue in its wake. It looked odd on his sharp cheekbones, making his grey eyes seem even paler than usual.

His reaction had been bizarre. _Most_ bizarre. And involuntary. It was extremely unnerving. Sherlock wasn't body conscious, at least to his knowledge. He didn't care about the anatomy of the flesh. It was all transport, and the idea that it could have an alternative purpose was not something that he'd considered. Yet, he could still hear his pulse thudding beneath his ear, could feel the clamminess of his hands sticking to the porcelain sink. His feelings had never been so perplexing, so impossible to quantify. Sherlock was truly and most uncharacteristically stumped.

It was a while before he managed to change, wash up, and collect himself enough to reenter his room. When he did, John was already nestled beneath the covers of his bed, shut eyes opening a fraction when he heard Sherlock approach.

"I like your pyjamas," John commented dreamily. Sherlock looked down at his flannel nightclothes. They were nothing special. Grey with thin white pinstripes. He tried to catch a glance of John's pyjamas, but they were hidden beneath the bedclothes.

"Erm…thank you," Sherlock replied unsteadily, flattening a nonexistent wrinkle from his shirt.

In a clumsy, heavy-limbed move, John flipped back the covers on the vacant side of the bed, silently beckoning Sherlock to join him.

Hesitating for only a moment, Sherlock took a deep breath and rounded the bed, before sliding between the sheets as tentatively as possible.

When he was lying fully on his side, facing away from John and inching as close to the edge of the bed as he could without falling off, John spoke.

"See, not so bad."

"I suppose," Sherlock returned, barely above a whisper. He pulled the duvet up to his jaw.

"I haven't had a sleepover in a long time."

"I've never had one."

"Mmm." A pause. "Do you ever get lonely, stuck here in this big mansion?"

"No." Sherlock adjusted a bit. "But I do get bored."

"I know. You say that a lot."

A silence fell between them, though Sherlock could tell from the tempo of John's breathing that he was not asleep. He waited for the inevitable question. John could be so easy to read at times.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Have you…have you ever had a friend before?"

Sherlock let out a long exhale through his nose. It had only been a matter of time before John asked him that question. It was no mystery that Sherlock did not get along well with other people. John was the only exception. Sherlock had yet to identify exactly why.

"No. Problem?" he replied curtly.

"No. Besides, I'm sure it will be easy for you to make friends at Hogwarts. More people like you, people who are just as good at magic and potions. You'll probably not want to see me much anymore," he said with a weak chuckle.

"I've met some of the people we'll be attending school with. Father occasionally has his deplorable pureblood parties for the sake of his stupid reputation."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. The people my age…well…they did not like me and I did not like them."

"I see." John cleared his throat and Sherlock closed his eyes. Things had been going so well, too. At least now the truth about his…social difficulties, was out in the open. He was just about to tell John off to make things easier on both of them, when John spoke again. "Well, _I_ like you."

Sherlock's mind went blank for one of the few times in his young life. He had no concept of how to reply. White, tense, empty, _John likes me_.

Before his thoughts had a chance to reboot and form a reply, John relieved him of the need.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed.

"Yes?"

"If you get bored and try to do any of your experiments on me while I'm sleeping, I'll steal all your books and replace them with cake magazines. Clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock replied through a small smile. With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock snuffed all the wall candles out, shrouding the room in near darkness. Dull moonlight peaked though the windows and pooled on the floor in squares.

"Cool," John mumbled.

"Basic wandless magic," Sherlock whispered back, though he couldn't fight the proud expression that bloomed across his face.

Within minutes John was asleep, the slow in and out of his breathing giving him away.

Sherlock stayed awake for a bit, not daring to move and finding himself quite unaccustomed to the presence of another body in his bed, to the sound of someone else's clement breathing in the dark. He tried to remind himself that this was just John, the short, patient, reckless boy he spent most of his days with. John was his friend. _Friend_.

Sherlock had a friend.

At the realization, it felt as though something snapped, and all the tension leaked from Sherlock's form until he was more comfortable than he could ever remember being. Sleep, deep and uninterrupted, found him quickly.

* * *

"Oh, there you are! I've been waiting for you. Listen, I need your opinion on—"

"Wait, Sherlock, hold up," John interrupted, halting Sherlock with a grip on his shirt sleeve.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock turned around, impatient, and eyed John fully for the first time since he'd opened the manor door to let him in. John was wearing a matching wool scarf and hat, flakes of snow dissolving on his head and shoulders of his coat. A few drops of moisture clung to his blonde lashes.

Eyes flickering around the foyer, bottom lip caught between his teeth, weight shuffling between his feet, left hand concealed behind his back. John was nervous. Why?

"I uh, I have something…for you…erm…Happy Birthday!" John stammered, drawing his hand from behind his back and presenting Sherlock with a small, flat, clumsily wrapped box. The paper was purple and silver, with a tad too much ribbon trussed around its edges.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked skeptically, taking the box from John and turning it over in his fingers. Light, weight evenly dispersed. He shook it. Nothing rattled.

"Open it and find out."

Sherlock frowned at him, honing his focus in an attempt to deduce whatever it could be that John would wrap in purple paper and present to him.

"Stop looking at me like that and open it."

Sherlock sighed loudly, shooting John an aggravated glare, and began unwrapping his present.

"You know, birthdays are one of the most preposterous holidays humans choose to celebrate. I certainly don't see the purpose in proclaiming one's—" and Sherlock was abruptly silenced as he plucked the top off the box and revealed the gift within.

It was a scarf. Dark blue like John's eyes, striped like John's favourite jumper, cashmere and subtle and perfect.

"John," he whispered, pulling the present delicately from the box, which he let fall, unnoticed, to the floor.

"Do you like it?" John asked hopefully, offering an apprehensive half-smile.

"I…well, I—it's certainly…it-"

"Sherlock Holmes, tongue-tied? I'll take that as a yes, then."

Sherlock tried to think of an acerbic retort, but found himself distracted by the soft feel of the gift in his hands. With gentle fingers he folded it in half, wrapped it around his neck, and pulled the ends through the loop. It felt right, warm, downy against his skin.

Clearing his throat and pushing his shoulders back, he met John's eyes.

"Thank you," he said formally, extending his hand. John snickered at the gesture, but shook Sherlock's hand regardless.

"You're welcome."

Sherlock released John's hand, wondering fleetingly if he'd held it longer than what was appropriate, and stuffed the hand in his trouser pocket. With his other, he fingered the new ornament about his neck.

"You know, given the colours, this could be a Ravenclaw scarf," he pondered, weaving the blue fringe around his forefinger.

"Oh, really? Didn't occur."

Sherlock glanced up at him through eyelashes.

"Clearly."

" Now, what was it you wanted to show me?"

* * *

"Where have you been?" John bellowed, eyes wild, when he turned and caught sight of Sherlock as he emerged from beneath a willow tree. It was pouring rain, cold and smelling of spring (mud, old leaves, bulbs, chlorophyll). The sound of many droplets smattering across pond water was surprisingly loud.

"Problem?" Sherlock replied flatly, adjusting his scarf. He hadn't seen John so cross with him in a while, though sometimes he swore the boy looked for things to get riled up over.

"I've been waiting here for two hours! In the _rain_, Sherlock. I thought something happened to you." John charged up to him as he said the words, gesturing frantically. His typically smooth blonde locks were spiky, wet. His eyes were much bluer than usual, a side-effect of the grey light, Sherlock hypothesized.

"Hardly my fault. I said I'd be here by noon."

"It's half-two, Sherlock!"

"No it isn't."

"Yes, it bloody-well is!" Sherlock's temple twitched as John thrust his wristwatch in Sherlock's face. It read 14:27.

"Ah."

"Yes, '_ah_.' Now, I'll try this again. Where the hell have you been?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, flipped up the lapels of his woolen coat, and clasped his hands behind his back.

"I was conducting an experiment."

"An experiment."

"Yes. I was testing the relative re—"

"Then why didn't you come get me? You forgot about me again, didn't you."

Sherlock twitched. The time had, indeed, gotten away from him. Though he'd known John for almost a year, he still found it difficult to think of him when he was caught in the web of a project. He was very fond of John, but the work came first. Surely John understood that.

"I could have helped you," John muttered, drooping. A raindrop rolled off the tip of his nose.

"I doubt it. It was very complicated."

"Oh, right, I forgot. You're the great Sherlock Holmes and you always work alone, right?"

"I—no, I just got distracted."

"Of course you did. You—" John broke off with a rather violent series of sneezes.

"Are you ill?" Sherlock asked, clasping John's drenched upper arm. He was promptly shrugged off.

"Probably. I'm going home." John turned, shuffling in the direction of his house.

"John, wait."

"No, it's fine, Sherlock. Don't bother worrying about me. You never do," John snapped, striding off towards the brush. Just at the edge of the woods, he turned.

"And by the way, today's my birthday. Thanks for remembering," he called out, before slapping a sapling branch aside and disappearing into the budding forest.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he stood there, thinking, and staring at the spot where John had last been visible. Regardless, by the time he made it back to the manor, he was just as sick as his only friend.

**Author's Note: I read an extremely well-researched article hypothesizing the dates of John and Sherlock's birthdays. Whoever wrote it greatly supported their theory that Sherlock Holmes was born on the 6th of January and John Watson, on the 31st of March. I'll take it. I love fun facts, truly I do. (fun fact: someone who loves fun facts is called a 'Spermologer'. Funfactception)**


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock, be careful!" John hissed up at him, hands cupped around his mouth, when Sherlock's foot slipped on a branch.

"Quiet!" Sherlock mouthed back and resumed climbing. He finally had something interesting, something mysterious to latch onto and he wasn't about to forfeit it because John had some irrational aversion to tree-climbing.

Wrapping his arm around the base of the budding alder tree (_Alnus glutinosa_: prime ingredient in dentistry elixirs), he swung his leg up and over a thick bow. Turning about carefully, he perched on it, settling his back against the tree trunk and getting as comfortable as possible. At last, he was high enough to see over the perilous fence that bordered Ms. Cadderwall's garden. Now all there was left to do was wait and think and observe.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and ground his teeth, fiercely ignoring his incessant friend.

"_Sherlock_."

No.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock put up his barriers and honed his focus, blocking out John's voice entirely, with both magic and strong will, and locking on the garden below him. Small, regularly weeded, an array of herbs used in potion-making, and there, an enchanted planetary alignment instrument (iron, cobalt, glass). _Yes_. He was sure of it: Ms. Cadderwall had to be a witch. It was the only possible explanation.

His pale eyes sparked, a smirk tugging at his lips. Still, he needed more. If he could only catch her actually practicing magic…

But his thoughts were derailed entirely when something small pegged him on the side of the head. Automatically, he reached up to touch where it had hit, nearly losing his balance and grabbing back onto his branch just in time. His gaze shot down, vicious, to John.

"Sorry!" John whispered loudly, hands fisted in his hair. "I didn't mean to hit you, just get your attention."

While Sherlock had been working with him for months on honing his ability to shoot pebbles with his magic, John could never seem to control his aim. He did, however, possess an unconscious ability to hit whatever living creature was in the vicinity. More than one bean goose had been accidentally targeted. It was safe to say that the Sussex Downs was promptly removed from their migratory path.

"John, will you be quiet? I'm trying to—"

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut at the creaking of a door being opened. His head jerked towards it just in time to watch Ms. Cadderwall stepping out onto her patio, a Jack Russell terrier clutched under her arm. Late 60s, long grey hair, intricate velvet dress (moth eaten), gouty feet, most likely diabetic. She placed the dog (white, brown) on the ground, cooing to it, and went back through the door, closing it behind her. Damn.

Sherlock watched, deflating, as the dog yawned and pranced directly to a patch of dirt beside a crop of common nightshade (_Atropa belladonna_ – deadly, popular poison ingredient, can be used as a sedative in small doses). It began digging leisurely, bending low and sticking its rear up in the air.

Wait. Not a dog. Forked tail. A Crup! And an illegal one at that since wizards were required to dock Crup tails if they inhabited a muggle-populated area to avoid suspicion. There was no way someone non-magical would own one. This was the confirmation he needed.

A wash of jubilation tingled through him. He had composed a hypothesis (Ms. Cadderwall is a witch), collected evidence (potion herbs, magical astronomy tool, wizard pet), and solved the case. God, the feeling was like nothing else, as though the torrents of his thoughts had crested at their peak and were now fluttering down in slow, relaxing waves. The high of being right, the glory of pulling the pieces together. He wanted to chase it forever.

Sherlock was so lost in the sensation that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the Crup, who had stopped digging, caught sight of him and barked ferociously. His grip faltered, his foot, which was curled around a branch, dislodged, and before he could scrabble for purchase, Sherlock began to fall. Branches whipped at him, cracking, splintering, and he vaguely heard the sound of John's voice calling out, before the hard impact of the ground pounded the breath out of him.

Sherlock was dazed. Green, blue, skin, blonde were swirling above him. Blinking, he began to feel the sting of where the tree had lashed and the ache of impending bruises. He took a deep, gasping breath as control of his lungs returned to him. John was above him, his hands patting in various spots over Sherlock's body.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

John was panicked, his eyes bulging wide, pupils atypically dilated. Sherlock stared at them, so familiar now, and wasn't sure whether or not he liked the change, with the dark blue he so coveted nothing but a sliver around the black. And yet, the black was intriguing, an infinite abyss. He could imagine getting lost in it. What an unusual concept…

Then, in an instant, John transformed. A cool wash of focus and determination glazed over his features, replacing the panic. He seemed to age twenty years right before Sherlock's eyes.

And then the strangest sensation unfurled wherever John's fingers were touching him. It was magic, that much was clear, and it was pure, pristine. It coursed from John into Sherlock, pouring in an unseen flow from one wizard to another. The stings subsided and the aching was quelled with each pressure of fingertips, as though the pain was never there at all.

John was _healing_ him.

Suddenly, the mystery of Ms. Cadderwall didn't seem so interesting.

"John," Sherlock croaked, grabbing John's wrist in his hands. John startled and met his eyes, as though he'd been on some deep plane of focus and Sherlock had ripped him out of it. "You healed me."

"I—" John's Adam's apple bobbed. He looked confused, surprised.

"How did you do that?" Sherlock released John's wrists and pushed himself up gingerly into a sitting position. He felt no pain. Absurd, considering how far he'd fallen.

"I—I don't know. I just sort of did it," John shrugged.

"Not many wizards can do what you just did."

"Not many wizards have an idiot with a death wish for a friend," John griped, eyes narrowing.

"I'm not an idiot…"

"Really? Because you sure seem to forget important things sometimes." John gave him a meaningful glower.

"I take it you're still cross with me, then," Sherlock muttered, breaking eye contact and brushing debris away from his clothes. While he hadn't exactly apologized in so many words, he didn't think John would hold onto his mistake for so long. Usually, his anger petered out after a day or so. For some reason this hurt refused to subside. Sherlock didn't understand it. It was only a birthday. Congratulations, you managed to live another year. Fickle in the extreme.

"Yes, but not so cross that I want to see you in pain. You just fell out of a _tree_, Sherlock. You could have really been hurt." Sherlock met John's gaze, finding it unavoidably sad. It made his stomach churn.

"I…I apologise," he murmured, wrenching the words from himself with considerable difficulty.

"For falling out a tree or for forgetting my birthday…and me?"

"Consider it a general apology."

"Consider it generally considered." John smiled.

There. That was better, if slightly demeaning. Sherlock supposed it was worth it.

* * *

Sherlock scampered down the stairs to the foyer as fast as he could. No, no, _no_! He'd _told_ John not to call today. Could the stupid muggle-born follow any directions? This was bad. Very bad.

As soon as he heard the door handle click he knew he was too late.

"And who might you be?" asked the most obnoxious voice Sherlock had ever had the displeasure of hearing.

Sherlock jumped, skipping the last few steps, and rounded the large column at the center of the foyer. The front door came into view just as John began to speak.

"I, um…I'm—"

"It's none of your bloody business, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped, skidding to a halt beside his infuriating older brother.

"Ah, Sherlock. How fortunate we are to be graced with your presence. And with such colourful language, I might add. I wonder who could've inspired you to use such a classless word." Mycroft's eyes flickered to John significantly. "And I'm afraid you are incorrect. The identity of this young man is absolutely my business, seeing as I'm head of the house while father and mummy are away, and he has just knocked on _my_ door."

Each word was swollen with his older brother's inherent pompousness, calculated specifically to degrade Sherlock. He felt his whole face flush red before he could control it. His fists clenched at his sides, and with a deep breath, he tried to reel in his fury. Expressing it would only insight Mycroft further.

"Well, he's come calling for me, so he's _my_ guest, and therefore none of your _bloody_ business."

"Don't be such a child, Sherlock. You know as well as I that I have every right to—"

"You're never even here! You have _no_ right to—"

"Come, come, Sherlock. I know your fledgling age breeds ignorance, but surely even you aren't given to denying the very strict and established rules of this household."

"I see the ministry has been feeding you well, Mycroft. Tell me, do they pay you in cauldron cakes or is that just a benefit?"

"Excuse me!" John shouted, causing the attention of both Holmes boys to snap to him. John took a slow breath, pushing his shoulders back. "I'm John Watson." He held out his hand to Mycroft. There was a long, awkward pause before Mycroft took it, shaking tentatively. Sherlock did not fail to catch the glint of intrigue in his beady eye. It was unsettling. "I'm Sherlock's friend."

"_Friend_?" Mycroft asked, sounding shocked in the absurd. His gaze, penetrating as always, vacillated between Sherlock and John.

"Yes," John confirmed proudly. While he was by far the shortest of the three, he managed to elongate every one of his vertebra and stretch himself to his full height.

"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you'd actually found a friend?" Mycroft's grin was cutting, patronizing.

"I don't tell you anything."

"That is, most regrettably, true."

"It's no wonder though, is it? I've never even seen you here before, and I'm here a lot," John countered casually.

Sherlock eyes went so wide he had a vision of them popping out of his skull and bouncing on the marble floor. He watched Mycroft's left temple twitch before he adjusted his stanchly-pressed robes unnecessarily, and stuck up his chin.

"I have business that keeps me away from the manor. Vital, clandestine ministry business. You wouldn't understand."

"Ministry? You work for the wizard government?" John asked, his curiosity clearly getting the better of him. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"He's just an intern. Though, he does aspire to _be_ the wizard government."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Sherlock."

"_Dramatic?_ I'm sorry, have you actually seen what you're wearing?" Sherlock asked, looking Mycroft's gaudy robes up and down.

Mycroft bristled, hand clenching on the handle of the expensive umbrella which concealed his wand. Ah. Point to Sherlock. Jabs at Mycroft's soggy figure never failed to irk him. Unfortunately, Mycroft's expression reverted back to stone much too soon.

Mycroft turned his attention to John.

"I have urgent matters to attend to at the present, but I would like to have a chat with you, _in private_, sometime soon, John."

"Absolutely not!", "Alright," Sherlock and John said in unison. Sherlock fixed John with a stinging glare. Traitor.

"Wonderful," Mycroft exclaimed, looking far too triumphant for his own good. After shooting Sherlock a disapproving glance, he turned and exited the foyer with a swish of his robes, no doubt heading for the kitchens. Sherlock briefly contemplated frightening the house elves into hiding all the food from the fat ponce. Mrs. Hudson would not approve, but really, he'd only be doing him a favor.

"Sherlock?" John placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off harshly.

"I told you not to come here this week," he snapped. John took a step back, blinking.

"But—"

"Why did you do that? Can you not follow the simplest direction?"

"I—I can, thank you, I just had something that I needed to tell you," John said, tone gaining an edge.

"Well now because of your idiocy and impatience I have to deal with Mycroft's interference. Tell me, what was so bloody important? It had better be worth annihilating my privacy from my brother."

John looked up at the ceiling and exhaled through his teeth, before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a folded piece of parchment. He shoved it against Sherlock's chest, crinkling it. Sherlock snatched it with a growl, fighting the urge to rip it to shreds, and spread it open. He only needed to read the first line to know what it was:

_Dear John Hamish Watson,_

_ We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

"Ah, you got your letter. Congratulations, mine arrived a few days ago. Now, leave."

John, rather than leaving, glowered at him.

"That's it?" he asked. Face flushing, back muscles tense, feet planted. John was mad at him again.

"That's what?" Sherlock employed his most unaffected tone.

"You're not even the least bit excited?"

"Why would I be? We knew the letters were coming."

"Yes, but…well, it's a big deal to me. My parents, they didn't even take it badly. In fact, I think they were kind of excite—"

"Yes, yes, wonderful. Now, I was very busy with an important experiment. A philtre, quite complicated, you wouldn't understand—"

"You sound like Mycroft," John mumbled, seizing the letter back from Sherlock.

Sherlock was scandalized.

"That's the worst thing you have ever said to me."

John looked for a second as though he were going to smile, but his lips set in a hard line when he realized that Sherlock was deadly serious.

"I can think of plenty of worse things I'd like to say to you right now."

"Well thank goodness you're choosing not to be tedious. That would be tremendously out of character for you." The sarcasm practically seeped from his words.

"You can be a real dick sometimes, do you know that?" John took a step towards him, crowding his personal space, and poked him in the chest with a rigid finger.

"Of course I do!" Sherlock snarled. "You never fail to remind me."

John paused.

For some bizarre, unidentifiable reason, the anger visibly drained from John in an instant. The lines around his eyes smoothed out, his shoulders sagged, his breath released in a rush. Why? Sherlock had merely stated fact. Odd. For all John's ordinariness and predictability, he still managed to be surprising at the most unexpected moments.

"I'm sorry I came over when you asked me not to. I was just excited," John muttered repentantly, looking at their feet. They were standing unusually close together. The crown of John's blonde head was just centimeters from Sherlock's nose. Lavender, tea, _John_.

"I know you were."

"And I can see why you wouldn't want me to. Your brother is a real prat."

"He is."

"So…do you forgive me?" Dark blue, hopeful, small smile. Sherlock blinked, finding his own ire swiftly retreating.

He responded with a clipped nod.

"Then can I sit on your bed and watch you while you brew your potion?"

"Fine, as long as you don't talk too much or touch anything."

"I never do."

"You always do," Sherlock argued, though there was no fight in it, and turned back towards the stairs.

"Only when I want to annoy you," John quipped from close behind him.

"And you say _I'm_ the dick."

* * *

"This is the most brilliant thing I've ever seen," John murmured, mystified, from close beside him as they walked along the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. While John's eyes darted, wide and glistening, from shop to pedestrian to pet, Sherlock's focus stayed locked on John. He'd been to Diagon Alley many times before, usually to acquire some particularly rare potions ingredient, so nothing was of particular interest. John's reaction to it, on the other hand, was rather mesmerizing.

"Ollivander's is just there," he said, pointing. They'd finally managed to shake off Mycroft and his officious compulsion to chaperone them, so they could acquire their wands in peace. Sherlock had been looking forward to getting his wand for as long as he could remember. There were so many potions he couldn't execute properly without it. It was essential.

As it was, he wanted to speed up their pace, but found it impossible with John dragging his feet and looking so endearingly captivated.

"I had no idea it would be like this. It's just…wow."

"We're here," Sherlock said, grasping John's upper arm and steering him towards the cloudy glass windows of Ollivander's Wand Shop.

"Wow," John whispered, looking up at the ancient gold lettering.

When the door shut behind them, triggering a bell alarm, John jumped. Without delay, Ollivander emerged from the back room. Mid-fifties, hair prematurely graying, pale (works in the dark). Something about him was instantly intriguing. A master of his craft, of lore.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes. I wondered when I'd be seeing you. The time does get away from me. And who is this?" Ollivander came to stand before them, nodding to John with his hands on his hips.

"I'm J—"

"Aha!" he exclaimed, clapping his palms together and scurrying behind a column of fully-stocked shelves. He'd looked as though someone had called to him, but the shop was empty, quiet.

John and Sherlock glanced at each other skeptically. Perhaps Ollivander was more mad than genius.

"Here it is!" the man beamed, popping out from behind a shelf at the other end of the shop. Ollivander walked right up to John and placed a thin, dusty box in his hands. John hesitated, eyes wide, but clasped it and removed the lid. Ollivander watched as he tentatively folded the tissue paper aside.

John gasped when he clapped eyes on the wand.

"Willow, ten inches, dragon heartstring," Ollivander said while John gently pulled the wand from the box as though it were some delicate, wounded animal. He looked from Sherlock to Ollivander with a bewildered expression. "Well, go on, give it a wave."

John wrapped his fingers around the knotted base of the wand, and flicked. Instantly, the strangest, intangible _aura_, for lack of a better word, swelled out from its tip and permeated the air. Every ache, throb, or fatigue that Sherlock didn't even realize he'd felt faded away into nothing. It was relaxing, soothing, and made him feel inexplicably protected.

"Perfect," Ollivander murmured, beaming. John's dark blue eyes, charged with energy, locked with Sherlock's.

Sherlock couldn't quantify how long they stood there, staring at each other, and he startled when Ollivander addressed him.

"Mr. Watson was an easy charge. You, Mr. Holmes, are far more challenging."

"Am I?" Sherlock inquired smugly. It was only fitting that his wand choice was a complicated one. He was, after all, a complicated wizard.

"Yes. An ordinary core just won't do for you. Hmmm," he hummed to himself, tapping his index finger on his chin.

"Perhaps Veela hair would suit," Sherlock suggested.

"I do not carry wands with Veela hair. They're far too…aggressive, unpredictable. No, you need something with more control, suited to do a variety of things. Hmm…let's try…" Ollivander turned, disappearing amongst the many shelves again, before returning with a box in hand. He opened it, removed the wand, and handed it to Sherlock. "Oak, twelve inches, unicorn hair."

Sherlock took it from him and gave it a graceful swish. Across the shop, a vase erupted, sending shattered glass, water, and hawthorn flowers (_Crataegus monogyna_: essential ingredient in living dead draught) to the floor.

"Woah, there," John said from beside him, his eyebrows arched.

"Definitely not," grumbled Ollivander, taking the wand back, placing it in its box, and returning it to the shelves. "How about this one?" he asked when he came back, presenting Sherlock with a short, tan wand. "Birch, eight inches, dragon—"

"No."

"…sorry?"

"No. That is not my wand."

The corner of Ollivander's mouth twitched.

"Very well."

A small silence fell as Ollivander stared off, brow furrowed with deep concentration. Sherlock recognized the look, for it was one he often wore on his own face. He knew it best not to speak and interrupt Ollivander's analysis.

He didn't have to wait very long.

"That's it!" Ollivander exclaimed, dashing not to another corner of the store, but to the back room. Sherlock waited anxiously, while John's focus was acutely married to the new wand in his hands.

"Here we are!" Ollivander announced as he emerged, a worn, black box in hand. He handed it to Sherlock gingerly, as though fearing it might explode at Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock had read a great deal on the various experiences wizards had when encountering their true wands. He'd fantasized about what his wand would be like and how he would feel when he first held it in his hands. His imagination had been grossly deficient.

As soon as the top of the box was removed, the tissue paper folded away, an overwhelming swarm of tingles burst in his chest. He felt short of breath, lightheaded. Yes.

This was his wand.

It was like being united with a limb he'd always required but was born without. Like finding a part of himself, a powerful part that seemed to draw in all of his magic and sharpen it to a point. The feeling intensified when he grazed the dark stained wood with his fingertips, curling them around the intricately carved base.

Suddenly, all around them a swift gust of black wind swirled, drowning out the light from the candlesticks. Cold, strong, fathomless. Ollivander and John stiffened, eyes blowing wide, while Sherlock felt nothing but powerful serenity.

As swiftly as the wind arrived, it dissipated, leaving the three in a lingering silence. Ollivander was the first to break it, clearing his throat and seeming to gather his voice.

"Rowan, thirteen inches, Chimaera heartstring. There is only one other wand with such a core. I did not think I would ever find another wizard who would suit it."

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked, gripping his new wand possessively, curiosity flaring. "Who has that wand?"

"A professor a Hogwarts, actually. Professor Brook."

Interesting.

"What do they teach?"

"Potions, I believe, though I can't say for sure. I haven't seen him in quite some time."

While it was not an imperative, Sherlock vowed in the back of his mind to discover everything he could about this Professor Brook. Surely someone whose rare wand core matched his own would have to be exceptional. And he taught potions: the superior subject.

Once they had paid for their wands, Sherlock taking the time to further explain wizard currency to John, who looked at Galleons as if they were some kind of treasure, they left the shop. Mycroft was waiting for them on the cobblestones, looking smug as ever.

"You acquired your wands, I assume?" he said.

"Obviously."

"Then, if I'm not mistaken, you both have everything you need."

"John needs a pet," Sherlock said, pointing at John with his thumb. John blushed.

"Oh, no, I really don't. I'm fine."

"Nonsense, John," Sherlock chided. "You've mentioned pets at least seven times since I told you about them."

"No, no it's okay."

"They are not required, Sherlock," Mycroft interjected, looking stern.

"Of course they aren't, but I know John wants one."

"Sherlock, please," John whispered, grabbing his arm and leaning in close. His eyes were sharp.

"What, John?" he snapped. "You're being obstinate again."

"I can't afford it, alright? I barely had enough for the supplies with what my parents could give me." John's ears were red, his jaw tight. Oh. He was embarrassed.

"Well, then I'll buy one for you." There. Problem solved.

"No, thank you," John muttered, releasing Sherlock's arm and stepping back.

"Why ever not?"

"I don't want you to."

"But why?"

"Sherlock, drop it," Mycroft commanded. His gaze was sharp, his tone deep and unwavering.

"But—"

"Now."

Without letting him say another word Mycroft lead them down the alley towards the Leaky Cauldron. John kept his head down, his eyes fixed on his feet rather than darting around excitedly as they had before. Sherlock tried to catch his expression, but could make little out from his profile.

By the time they were settled in their rooms, Sherlock was thoroughly frustrated. He had no idea why John's mood had plunged so drastically, especially when Sherlock had only offered to help. Mycroft shot him a warning glare before he closed the door to his adjoining room, leaving Sherlock and John alone in theirs.

John sat down on his dusty single bed, pushing aside the bag that held his potions supplies (one size 2 pewter cauldron, one set of crystal (not glass, at Sherlock's insistence) phials). Sherlock slid his hands in his pockets and stared at him, absorbing the details of his person. Downtrodden, embarrassed, shoulders drooping.

"We can share my eagle owl," Sherlock offered quietly. "You're the only person I'll desire to send letters to anyways, especially since we'll be in different houses."

"You don't know that we won't be sorted together," John said, barely above a whisper.

"I do know. We're very different people, John."

John exhaled slowly and rubbed his hands across his face and into his hair.

"You're the Slytherin and I'm the Gryffindor."

"Yes."

"But Slytherins and Gryffindors hate each other."

"As I said,' very different people.'"

"But I don't hate you." John finally looked over at him with tired, sad eyes.

Sherlock felt suddenly very uncomfortable. John's occasional emotional bouts were not something Sherlock was equipped to handle.

"I know. Individuals don't represent the whole."

"Or maybe you're just a Ravenclaw."

Sherlock sighed. No matter his efforts, John didn't seem able to let that one go. Sherlock knew who he was, what lengths he would go to in getting what he needed. It wasn't so much a matter of him not being a Ravenclaw. He was just more of a Slytherin. He leaned back against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I suppose we won't know until we get there."

"So there's still a chance?"

"Maybe."

A coy, half-smile curled John's lips, the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly.

"Can I really use Prospero?" he asked.

"He's my owl. If I say you can, you can. He prefers you over me anyways. You spoil him with treats."

"Someone has to."

"Don't make me reconsider. We don't want him too fat to function."

"Are we talking about your owl or Mycroft?"

A bark of uncontrollable laughter escaped Sherlock's throat. John joined him quickly, squinting in mirth, his lips spreading into a beaming smile.

"I heard that!" came a muffled cry from the other room. Sherlock and John laughed so hard they found themselves on the floor, clutching their stomachs and rolling. Sherlock's face muscles still hurt when he woke in the morning and headed for King's Cross Train Station, John Watson at his side.

**Author's Note:** **Next chapter: we FINALLY get to Hogwarts and get these two doofballs sorted. Joy. I hope you liked my wand choices for Sherlock and John. A great deal of research went into the selection. Like, how am I such a nerd that I spent that long on the Harry Potter wikia and an herbalism site? HOW (*said in Sherlocky way*)**

**Thank you so, so much for your reviews! There aren't enough galleons in Gringott's to convey how priceless they are to me.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Phew! This chapter was a doozy. I can't tell you how many rewrites went into it or I'll vomit. Thank you so much for your support, darling readers. You're the butter to my beer.**

"Nervous?" John whispered in Sherlock's ear, chest pressing up against his back.

"No. You?"

"No." A lie, though well-concealed to the average observer. Of course Sherlock wasn't average in any aspect of his person. Why John even bothered attempting to lie to him anymore was indiscernible.

Sherlock glanced at his friend, watching as dark blue eyes flickered around the foyer. While Sherlock had never seen Hogwarts in person before, he at least had a vivid concept of what it would look like. John, on the other hand, was in complete awe, even more so than he'd been in Diagon Alley. Sherlock's offer to share Prospero had been sufficiently placating, considering John wouldn't stop chattering like a fool for the whole of their Hogwart's Express trip (during which they, thank Merlin, had a compartment all to themselves), and then didn't utter a word the entire boat ride. He did lean against Sherlock's side a fair bit though, which was acceptable.

When a man (prematurely graying hair, early thirties, good-looking by the quotidian standards, obvious Gryffindor) cleared his throat, coming to stand before the two massive, intricately-carved doors leading to the Great Hall, John startled behind him.

"Welcome to Hogwarts. My name is Professor Lestrade. I'm the head of Gryffindor House as well as the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, so I should become pretty well acquainted with all of you during your time here. If you have any questions, you can come to me or any of the other professors and we'll be happy to help.

"We will now be proceeding into the Great Hall where you will be sorted into your houses. Now, remember, your house will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn you points, any rule-breaking, and you will lose points. Ready? Let's proceed."

"I like him," John said quietly, still close to Sherlock's back.

"You would."

When the doors creaked open, the buzzing of conversation within the hall cut off in a hush. John gulped. Sherlock almost took John's sleeve between his fingers, a supposed gesture of comfort that John had often used on him, but thought better of it. This was neither the time nor the place.

They filed into the hall side by side, following Lestrade and working their way up the middle aisle with all eyes fixed upon them. Sherlock very pointedly avoided looking at the Slytherin table, keeping his focus on John instead. Still, his neck prickled as though he could sense Mycroft watching him. Perhaps he could.

"Alright, so maybe I'm a little nervous," John admitted.

"Relax, it'll be fine."

"I wish we'd get sorted together," John sighed softly as they came to stand in a group at the front of the hall.

"We won't be, but it doesn't matter. We talked about this."

Before John could reply, the anxious glint in his eyes clawing at Sherlock's own resolve, the Sorting Hat began to sing. It was an ancient, tattered, dirty thing (once owned by Godric Gryffindor: _Hogwarts: A History_), and Sherlock was fascinated by it. He'd read all there was to know about Hogwarts (obviously), and for the most part had been a tad unimpressed with the reality thus far.

The Sorting Hat was an exception.

It was a tool of deduction, a magical instrument that could take a wizard's mind, analyze it, identify the most prominent traits, and sort them accordingly. Sherlock fancied that he possessed a similar ability, though it was through his own intellect rather than a charm, and clearly superior. He glanced around at his fellow first years, observing and cataloguing and making his own sorting deductions. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw. Obvious.

When the hat finished its customary song, Sherlock's attention was drawn back to the man called Lestrade. With a tranquil posture he approached where the hat perched on a stool and, a parchment list in hand, began reading off the names of various students in alphabetical order. Sherlock was pleased, though hardly surprised, to note that all of his sorting selections were proving correct.

John was worrying his lip beside him, clearly fearing the moment when Sherlock would be called first and leave him there alone. Still, it had to be said that his friend hid his dread well. It was apparent to Sherlock, of course, but John did have an impressive way of pushing his shoulders back and being remarkably stoic when things upset him. It was one of his most appealing qualities.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade bellowed, the words echoing through the hall. John tensed beside him.

Sticking up his chin and flattening his curls with a perfunctory swipe, Sherlock approached the stool. With a swirl of his robe behind him, he took his seat and Lestrade placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

Immediately, a voice (deep, rasping, ancient) began whispering in his ear.

"Ah, finally a challenge. Haven't had one this good since your brother."

Sherlock grumbled. That was the last thing he was hoping to hear.

"You're a proper genius, yes, just like him. Different though. Very different. Oh, this mind…depthless and raging. A gift and a curse. You could be great you know. It's all here in your head. The things you could do if you let the ends justify the means."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John, standing there, staring at him with his lip between his teeth.

"Yet, there's obsession in here too. A thirst for knowledge," the hat continued, "you could dedicate yourself to learning instead. To your craft. Yes, this one is difficult, _very_ difficult."

It was an odd experience for Sherlock to find himself the subject of analysis. He was always on the other end, ripping things down to their truths. In fact, he was starting to get irritated. What did a bloody bonnet see that he didn't already know of himself? What did it know that _John_ didn't? And that was a strange thought. After all their time together, all their mornings, afternoons, nights, it was undeniable that John knew him more thoroughly than any other person, even Mycroft. There were still things he kept hidden, of course. Buried, locked away, coveted. Things no one would ever know. Yet there John was, with his dark blue eyes and wistful praise and stupid expressions. Sherlock looked at him, and a series of memories flashed in his mind.

"_I suppose Ravenclaw would be bearable."_

"_And what kind of people are in that house?"_

"_Clever people. People of wit and learning."_

"_That sounds like you to me."_

John had barely known him then, and yet he seemed so sure.

…

"_You're the Slytherin and I'm the Gryffindor."_

_ "Yes."_

_ "But Slytherins and Gryffindors hate each other."_

_ "As I said,' very different people.'"_

"_But I don't hate you."_

John didn't hate him. John was his friend, by choice, because he _liked_ him. John thought he was funny and brilliant and a dick, but that was fine too. It was all fine. How extraordinary. Even Mycroft only cared for him out of some pureblood family obligation. Mycroft, the Slytherin. Mycroft, who had always assumed Sherlock would be sorted as he was. Mycroft, who, with his equally brilliant mind, still didn't see him at all.

…

"_Or maybe you're just a Ravenclaw."_

He stared at John's face, reading the anxiety, the tension. John's eyes had always looked so inexplicably sad when Sherlock declared himself a Slytherin. Those eyes, he could see them now, with their shifting colour and endless capacity for emotion. Emotion Sherlock could never feel.

Still, if he could, he would feel it for John.

And suddenly the resonant voice of the Sorting Hat cried out above him.

"Ravenclaw!"

Sherlock and John's eyes went wide in unison, the clapping of the Ravenclaw students only a distant patter in the back of Sherlock's mind. He was stunned, unable to react, watching as John's mouth gradually curled into a satisfied (proud?) smile. Without meaning to, Sherlock's eyes immediately darted to Mycroft, seeking him out by instinct where he sat the Slytherin table. The absurdly amused expression he found gazing back at him was enough to snap him to composure.

He slid off the stool as elegantly as possible and joined his housemates at their table, which was situated between Gryffindor's and Slytherin's. He took his seat gingerly, vaguely aware of a few hands patting his back. Sherlock quickly adopted his best expression of impassiveness, straightening his posture and resolutely not making eye-contact with those around him.

When he felt sufficiently guarded, he turned his focus back to the sorting ceremony. The gaggle of prospective first years had thinned, a few having been assigned while Sherlock was collecting himself. John's back was stiff and straight, his focus locked on Lestrade as he worked his way down the list.

By the time the rest of the students were sorted and only John remained, he looked as though he might jump out of his skin.

"John Watson!" Lestrade called at last. John inhaled deeply and approached the stool with short, careful steps, clearly aware of how everyone was suddenly watching him. There seemed to be an unspoken competition between the houses over who would claim the last first year, given the spike in overall interest. A few stutters of scattered cheers began to bubble up with increasing volume.

John sat. His lip was twitching, temple flexing, jaw set. It was evident that he did not enjoy the attention.

Lestrade, after whispering something (likely assuring) that Sherlock couldn't make out, held the hat above his head and the hall hushed in an instant, humming with silent anticipation.

He lowered the hat.

And before he'd even fully seated it on his crown, the ancient voice rang out:

"Gryffindor!"

The Gryffindor table erupted in applause. John's face flushed and a wide smile spread across his lips, before he hopped from the stool and eagerly rushed to join his happy housemates. They clapped him on the back and settled him into an empty space on the bench, just behind where Sherlock himself was sitting.

Sherlock had been right, then. John was a Gryffindor. Of course he was right. He was always right. That familiar, addictive rush of smug satisfaction coursed through him. He didn't always have the benefit of cold, hard proof to demonstrate his correctness. He'd claimed John was a Gryffindor from the very beginning, way before some idiotic hat, and now John knew it.

Yet, to Sherlock's disappointment, the high of intellectual superiority was unusually short-lived. So it was official, then: he and John were in separate houses. While he'd always known logically, inevitably that such a severance was bound to occur, it didn't seem to numb the odd stinging deep in his throat. From that moment on he and John would be different, divided on sides that, while not as opposing as Slytherin to Gryffindor would have been, were most certainly not the same.

He turned his head to the side, risking a look over his shoulder at where John was sitting. To his mild surprise, John was already watching him. A beaming grin was spread on his face, though for some reason it didn't completely reach his eyes. They were apologetic, resigned.

"Told you so," he said loudly over the echoing chattering around them.

"And _I_ told _you_ that you'd be in Gryffindor, so we're even."

"Even? That's a first."

"Don't get accustomed to it."

Sherlock offered John a weak half-smile and opened mouth to say more but was halted by the booming voice of the headmaster reverberating through the hall. The students instantly silenced and the benches creaked as everyone turned their attention to the podium.

Headmaster Dippet (wrinkled, severely balding, age indiscernible due to complex life-lengthening spells, habitual pipe smoker) leaned heavily on the owl-adorned podium, his breathing heavy and labored.

"Welcome, students," he rasped, voice amplified by the spell (_Sonorus_) he'd cast on his throat. "It is your pleasure to be at Hogwarts, I am assured, and I wouldn't want to spoil it by keeping you from your food. I trust your Head Boys and Girls will fill you in on all the necessary rules. So, without further ado, let the feast begin!" Dippet snapped his fingers and in an instant all the tables bloomed with an ornate, steaming feast.

"Woah," he heard John gasp from behind him. He smirked at the sound, though he found himself to be much less impressed. His own house elves were far superior to those of the Hogwart's kitchen. Father, as with everything, had spared no expense. Additionally, Sherlock had absolutely no appetite. He watched, grimacing, as his housemates scrambled to fill their plates.

To keep from gagging at the sight of them, scavenging like ravenous ogres, he looked up at the professor's table. Dippet sat, slouching, in the grand center chair, chatting mildly to a squat, dirty-fingered woman who could only be the Herbology professor. He scanned the table further, deducing easily the subjects each professor taught by their attire and the state of their fingernails and hair. He paused briefly on Lestrade, deciding after a quick assessment that he was one of the more interesting people he'd ever met, though the reason for which was unclear without more data. He made a note to observe the man thoroughly.

When Sherlock laid eyes on the last person at the end of the table, his breath hitched unexpectedly in his throat. The professor (large dark eyes, early thirties, elegant robes) was staring at him, a wide, toothy grin stretching his mouth. Sherlock twitched and quickly looked away, staring down at his empty plate. When he risked a sidelong glance back at the man, he found his gaze as sharp and unflinching as before, the smile even wider.

"Sherlock," John said from behind him, startling him so badly that he almost knocked his cutlery to the floor. Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder.

"_What?_" he snapped, arching an eyebrow and finding himself strangely short of breath. He shook his head and calmed himself, sharpening his focus.

"You should eat something."

He had no idea how John knew he hadn't been eating, considering his view of Sherlock's plate was obstructed. Well, he _did_ say John knew him better than anyone.

"Not hungry."

"Doesn't matter."

"You're bothering me."

"I'm always bothering you."

"Good point. Now leave me alone." Sherlock turned back around and crossed his arms, a deep frown in his brow. His personal eating habits were none of John's affair, no matter how often his incessant friend seemed to forget it. Besides, it wasn't like they'd ever be eating at the same table again. John would have to get used to it.

After a few long moments passed and most of his fellow Ravenclaws (muggle-born; pureblood; broken home; has a pet snowy owl; recently returned from trip to Egypt) were nearing the end of their meals, Sherlock snuck a look at John. His only friend's back was to him, but he was gesturing animatedly to a small, rapt audience. Two girls. They were smiling at him, even laughing occasionally, and leaning forward in their seats. One had dark, crimped hair and teeth too large for her mouth, the other had sandy blonde hair, much like John's, her facial features the epitome of common.

Sherlock instantly despised both of them with their eager smiles and inviting posture. Fickle, stupid, greedy Gryffindors.

He twitched when heard John say his name, unable to wipe the scowl off his face before John turned around and saw him. He tried to appear bored, impassive, and most definitely not like he'd been staring at John secretly, but was unable to gauge how successful he managed to be.

"That's him, there," John said with a proud smile, indicating Sherlock with a thumb.

"Is it true you can know everything about someone just by looking at them?" the dark-haired girl asked skeptically, challenging.

Sherlock nodded curtly.

"I was just telling Sally, here, all about that time you—"

"And I don't believe it," the girl called Sally interrupted. "You have to prove it."

"Yeah, show us!" added the blonde girl.

"Do it to me. I can handle It." Sally puffed out her chest, weaving her fingers together on the table.

"Oh, I don't think that's such a good—"

"It's fine, John. Didn't you hear her? She needs _proof_." Sherlock angled himself so that he could better view his charge. His eyes flashed and fingers twitched with the thrill of a case.

"Sherlock…" John said quietly in warning. Sherlock ignored him.

"Your family's poor, very poor, given the tattered state of your second-hand robes and the fraying at your collar. You're only cared for by one parent, most likely your father if the frankly alarming state of your hair is anything to go by, which it is, in addition to the masculine manner that you hold yourself. You have a brother, possibly two, but you're not close with them because they're significantly older than you and also muggles, though you hardly possess any above-average magical skill yourself. In fact, I'd wager any signs of magical ability were very late to appear, which is why you're so aggressively straining to prove yourself and your underwhelming intelligence, though it will fool few people and certainly not me."

By the time he'd finished both of the girls (who'd been fawning all over _his_ John) had their mouths hanging open, appalled, pathetic looks on their faces. John, on the other hand, was covering his eyes with his palm, elbow braced on the table. While Sherlock could see little of his expression given the angle and barrier of his hand, he didn't fail to miss the way his fingers clenched and shook against his thigh.

"Was that _proof_ enough for you?" Sherlock added snidely, attempting to ignore how tense his friend had become.

"You—you—" Sally sputtered.

"What is the matter with you?" snapped the blonde girl. "That was completely uncalled for."

"Yeah! Are you some kind of _freak_?" Sally appeared to have shaken off her initial shock and moved right into outrage, fueled by the support of her ally at her side.

"Hey! Don't call him that. You asked him to do it. I told you what he could do. It was your fault for not believing him."

Sherlock blinked at John who had removed the hand across his eyes and was now protectively inserting himself between Sherlock and Sally's lines of sight. His spine was perfectly straight, his feet planted firmly on the stone floor.

Sherlock leaned to the side so he could look over John's shoulder at Sally. She appeared to be one step away from launching herself across the table and pummeling John. Just as she opened her mouth to spew out what would inevitably be another conventional insult, they were interrupted by a familiar, taunting, bloody poncey voice.

"And just what, exactly, is going on here?" asked Mycroft, coming to loom in the aisle between John and Sherlock, his hands on his fat hips. The Head Boy badge stood out bright and obnoxious against his black robes. Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.

"Well, we were just—" John began.

"That _freak_ said horrible things to me!" Sally cried, pointing at Sherlock and drawing the attention of half the hall.

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock glared back at him.

"Is that true, Sherlock?"

A pause.

"Yes."

"See! He admits it!" Sally exclaimed in triumph.

"Now, hold on a minute—"

"Don't try to defend me, John. I _did_ say some horrible things, it is true. Impossible not to when one is accurately describing _that_ idiot's pathetic existence."

A series of gasps broke from the eavesdropping students around them. Sally looked as though she might splinch herself in fury. Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock, really," Mycroft chided. "With talk like that you leave me no choice but to serve you detention and you haven't even set foot in a classroom yet."

While Mycroft appeared regretful to a common observer, but Sherlock read the blatant satisfaction in the glint of his eye.

"You can't do that," John interrupted, rising to his feet, stumbling over the bench, and crowding into Mycroft's space. "You don't even know what really happened and you're just going to give him a detention?"

Mycroft flinched, but quickly drew himself to his full height.

"The evidence to punish him is sufficient, given his own admittance to the crime."

"Crime? It's a _crime_, now, to be perceptive and honest when someone asks for it?"

"Take your seat, John."

"No."

"If you don't sit down and manage to calm yourself, I'll be forced to give you detention as well."

John crossed his arms and set his stance, feet shoulder-length apart. Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he inflicted the full force of his intimidation of John.

There was absolutely no effect.

The onlookers were beginning to whisper excitedly to each other, clearly impressed that a short little first year was standing up to the Head Boy just after sorting.

"Detention it is. I'll send you both notice of when it is to be served. In the mean time," Mycroft added, leaning down and lowering his register, "I suggest you worry more about your own standing in this school, rather than Sherlock's."

With a dramatic swirl of his robes Mycroft turned and stalked back the Slytherin table, his hands clenched together behind his back.

"That was foolish," Sherlock sniped quietly once John had taken his seat, keeping his back to the two girls and facing Sherlock instead. The attention of the students around them slowly waned into nonexistence, the last of their food proving more engaging. "And completely unnecessary."

"You're my friend," John sighed, as though he were mourning some unfortunate certainty.

"Sorry for the inconvenience."

"You're forgiven." John offered Sherlock a small, tired smile. "So," he said, eyes softening, "Ravenclaw, huh?"

"Don't rub it in."

**Author's Note: Might be a little bit until the next chapter. I'm gonna turn my focus back to 'The First Trip' and since these 'Pensieve' chapters run long, they take some time. I promise it won't be too too long, though! And I will absolutely never ever ever abandon a project, so no worries on that front. I love this crossover too much. Way, way too much.**


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